IN BOOKS AND REAL LIP^E 195 



in the mating season skim the grass with a whirr. 

 Then the dogs are off and away, yelping ceaselessly 

 in shrill discord, and when you may see them 

 again is a question. 



In my opinion Sunday is the special day on 

 which they craftily and deliberately get into mis- 

 chief. On the other six days they see you in 

 tweeds or homespun, and are hopeful of something 

 turning up in their line. On Sunday they know 

 the meaning of the church bells. They assume a 

 suitable and Sabbatical demeanour, but it is sulky 

 rather than solemn. They see you come forth in a 

 top hat with an umbrella, and the umbrella is a 

 sure sign, for they know you never carry one under 

 other circumstances. They seldom try to follow, 

 though a puppy may sneak behind at a safe dis- 

 tance ; but the moment you are out of sight they 

 are planning diversion, and off they go for a long 

 day in the woods. It is well for my peace of mind 

 that I am friends with the surrounding keepers, 

 otherwise the thought of wire snares and rabbit 

 traps would disturb my devotions. I am not much 

 afraid of the dogs being shot, for my dark terriers 

 are *' kenspeckle," as they say in Scotland, that is, 

 there is no mistaking them. But the keepers make 

 a good thing of catching the culprits and bringing 

 them back. When they come home of their own 

 accord, fagged and muddy, self-convicted by the 

 briars and thorns on their coats, they are like the 

 truant boy who has had his fling, and knows he 

 has let himself in for well-merited punishment. 



